


The Hard Way

by Twisted_Mind



Series: Peter Hale, R.A. [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Coercion, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Orgasm, Grooming, Heavy Petting, Knotting, M/M, Manipulation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Mindfuck, Nipple Play, Nurse Peter Hale, Object Insertion, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Oral Sex, POV Peter Hale, Reproductive health, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 19:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20801414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: Stiles writhes as he comes, and Peter wishes he could give the headstrong little thing what he really needs, but. Patience. It’s one of the few virtues he possesses.





	The Hard Way

**Author's Note:**

> **_Please Note_**: this fic is the second in a series, and is incredibly dirtybadwrong. **Please** heed the tags, and give them a second, closer look if you think you might've missed some. This fic has _all the consent issues_ with regard to bodily autonomy in both medical and sexual settings, because Shady Peter. I will not be offended if you need to use the back button--take care of yourselves, use it if you need it! 
> 
> Big thanks to Bunnywest for helping me with this one--cheering it on, helping me work out issues, you name it, she helped with it. Fandom wouldn't be the same without you.
> 
> If anyone's confused about this version of omegaverse, notes are at the bottom. This is getting posted late, but better late than never, and I hope everyone has a good weekend!

Peter had hoped that, after experiencing a partnered heat and the relief organic pheromones could bring, Stiles would be less resistant to the idea of switching over, going off the synthetics. No such luck, unfortunately.

“Given the way you responded to organics while in heat, it would make sense to see how you respond to them outside of it.”

But pretty, stubborn Stiles shakes his head. “No. That—that was an emergency situation. It was necessary so I didn’t, I don’t know, have a heart attack or something equally stupid. I’m not interested in changing my meds.”

He sighs. “Alright.” He raises his hands, palm-outward. “I’m not telling you that you need to switch right away, and I absolutely don’t recommend going off them cold-turkey. I’m just pointing out that they ended your heat within three hours, and they could have a similar impact on your day-to-day health.”

Stiles’s jaw flexes, and he looks away. “I’d rather keep the organics as an emergency measure.”

Peter takes a deep breath. They can come back to this discussion another time. “In that case, please strip from the waist down and hop up on the table for me. I want to check on how you’re recovering.”

The pretty boy does as he’s told, and Peter gloves up. He peels the pouty lower lips apart and inserts a couple fingers, spreading them wide and relishing the gasp it gets him, and is thoroughly unsurprised to see that the boy’s cunt is still raw. Greedy little thing rode the knotting machine hard enough to tear a porn star.

He turns away to get some of the usual salve. “You’re still in rough shape.”

Stiles sighs. “Yeah, that figures. I don’t really register pain when I’m heat-drunk.”

He’d assumed as much, but it’s nice to have that confirmed. “Mm. Unfortunately, the risk of micro-tears means your meds can’t be administered the usual way.”

Stiles stops staring at the ceiling to frown at him. “Won’t the salve take care of that, though?”

Technically yes, but—“Not fast enough for you to avoid withdrawals.” Not when it’s already been three days since he ended the pretty boy’s heat with a healthy helping of come. He slips a couple fingers inside, and starts massaging the salve in. “It’ll probably take at least 36 hours to heal the leftover damage, and there’s no point trying to give you your meds before that, since the salve will prevent them from being properly absorbed.”

“Great. Just fucking great.” Stiles reaches up and rubs his eyes, frustrated and tense. “So what now?”

If he were on a lower dose, oral meds for the next two days, or a shot, perhaps, but given that his usual could kill a horse? “Rectal dose.”

He withdraws his hand, and Stiles sits up to curl into a ball. “Oh my god, no. No, no no no no no.” It’s muttered into the space between knees and body, and Peter’s not actually sure he’s meant to hear it.

So he peels off the one glove, and pulls on a fresh one. “It’s alright, darling. Nothing to be ashamed of. Hop off the table and settle into the usual position, and we’ll get you fixed up.”

Stiles is flushed and embarrassed, but he obeys. Peter could’ve just had him roll over onto his side, but this way, he gets to watch that cute little cunt glisten as the pheromones hit, and sometimes, it’s the little things that get you through the day.

***

It’s at their usual Tuesday appointment that he circles back around to a very important topic. “Stiles, do you remember talking about birth control, when we were making your heat plan?”

Confusion creases his pretty face. “Yeah?” he replies slowly.

“Is that something you’re still interested in?”

The boy chews his bottom lip for a moment before answering, and it makes Peter remember other things that mouth could do—and did. “I mean, I guess? You said you thought it might help with the heat bullshit.”

He quirks a brow in reprimand, and gets nothing but an eyeroll back. Stiles is lucky Peter likes his omegas cheeky. “I pointed out that birth control might help reduce their severity, yes. It’s a common reason omegas go on them—minimizing the disruption of heat, as well as the duration and severity of the bleeding afterwards.”

Stiles rubs at his eyes. “Ugh, don’t remind me. Periods are bad enough already.”

“Seems like you have ample reasons to give it a try, then.”

He gets a shrug. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Any preference with regard to method?” Peter knows what he’d like to prescribe, but he’s learned that Stiles responds much, much better to treatment containing elements of choice—even if only the illusion of one.

Stiles stares at his lap, fiddling with the edge of his shirt. “Nothing, like, inserted? I’ve got a friend, she uses the ring, and I’ve heard good things about it, but just—I’ve got enough going on down there, with the plug and meds and shit. I don’t want anything else in there.”

Peter nods. “Understandable. Does that mean IUDs are out as well?”

Stiles hums, tipping his head back and forth as he thinks about it. “I mean, probably not? I’m not thrilled at the prospect of one, but the less pills I have to try to remember to take, the better, with the ADHD.”

Excellent. “Alright. I’ll look into makes and models, as well as what your insurance will cover, and we can go over that sometime next week. In the meantime, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

The pretty thing pulls a face, but gets up and strips down for him. A little token defiance is perfectly all right with him, given the ultimate obedience. He gloves up, and plucks a small, teardrop-shaped plug from the exam room’s drawer, ignoring Stiles’s kit.

A fact that his wild child picks up on when Peter smears lube over his uptight little pucker rather than over the poor, neglected pussy.

“_What_ are you doing!?” He tries to stand up, move away from Peter’s careful touches, and that won’t do. Peter holds him in place with a firm hand at his lower back.

“You’re a smart boy, Stiles. Don’t tell me you haven’t figured out by now that you can’t keep going the way you have been. Your insides weren’t made to be stretched around a plug and saturated with synthetic pheromones for days at a time.”

He pops the clinic’s small plug through the pretty omega’s loosened sphincter, and notes with satisfaction that between his touch, and being breached, there’s slick shining between those rosy folds. It’s the work of a moment to attach the syringe to the plug’s port, and start pumping 80% of the boy’s usual dose into his stubborn ass.

The upside, of course, is that as soon as the synthetics push through, they’re almost instantly absorbed by the extremely-permeable tissues, and Stiles moans, slumping under the chemical rush. By the time Peter’s finished with some low-saturation carrier gel to make sure all the synths got through, the boy’s lying as docile as he could ever want, slick starting to leak down lean thighs.

He slips his clean hand between those long legs, cupping needy flesh, and swallows a moan at the heat he can feel even through the glove. He starts rubbing in gentle circular motions, imagining sinking his cock into that plush heat. “I know you don’t like to hear it,” he murmurs, “but synth suppositories are dangerous, and aren’t intended for long-term use. Those tissues are already so delicate that further thinning makes tearing—serious tearing, not the kind that salve and a day or two of rest can fix—an inevitability. So, if you’re going to insist on synthetics,” he grinds his palm against the wet, greedy hole, “then I’m going to make sure you’re staying as safe as possible.”

Stiles writhes as he comes, and Peter wishes he could give the headstrong little thing what he really needs, but. Patience. It’s one of the few virtues he possesses.

***

One of the downsides to the switch in orifices is fewer visits with his favourite—and most worrisome—patient. Luckily, the decreased dosage makes up for it, as the stubborn boy needs more frequent doses to compensate.

Not that he’s graceful about it.

“Seriously, what the fuck, man? First it was coming in twice a week for ‘administered doses’,” he actually uses air quotes and Peter closes his eyes so he doesn’t roll them, because he has professional standards to uphold, “and then that turned into four times a week, because you decided I need aftercare or prep or whatever, and now I’m seeing you just about every day. _What the fuck_?”

Peter takes a moment to really look at him before responding. The boy’s got an ashy pallor and a subtle sheen that makes him look quite ill. Between that and the shakes, it’s obvious he’s experiencing withdrawals. Which is, in part, Peter’s fault—he’s been tapering the boy down over the last few weeks, and he’s on about half of what he was when the semester started—but also, “Darling, why would you wait until you’re in withdrawal to come see me?”

“It’s been three days! I should’ve been fine!”

Well, perhaps. “But the issue here is that you’re _not_, Stiles. You’re not handling the synthetics well anymore.”

He gets bared teeth for saying that. “Oh my god, not this aga—”

“Yes, _again_, because apparently no one else in the course of your care ever got through to you,” he interrupts, leaning forwards on his desk. He fixes his incorrigible omega with a stern glare. “Synthetics exist to give you a choice, but they aren’t without risks, especially with long-term use. You’ve been on them nearly eight years, now, long enough to build a dangerous tolerance to them. And everyone from your dam to your gynaecologist has tried to talk to you about your options, but you consistently refuse to hear them.”

“Because everyone just keeps going on about ‘organics’, like what they’re talking about isn’t pheromones from another _human being_, isn’t _sex_!” Stiles shouts, able to muster an impressive amount of righteous indignation despite the withdrawal symptoms.

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, half out of exasperation, and half to make his point. “Pheromones aren’t only exchanged during sex, Stiles. Casual contact, kissing, even living in the same space as a trusted alpha would help your situation. Which you’d _know_,” he gives the boy a pointed look, “if you ever bothered to talk options with any of your care providers. The reason being knotted by a Registered Alpha is even being brought up is that you haven’t and won’t do any of those things. You aren’t dating, don’t have alpha friends, aren’t living in a co-ed dorm. Which means that the measures to give you what you need are necessarily more drastic, because they’re all you have.”

“Oh.”

And, well. That’s more progress than he thought he’d make today, given the state the boy is in, so he lets it go, for the moment.

“Yes, ‘oh’. Now, how about we get you your meds, and on your way to feeling better, hmm?”

But if Peter flips the errant omega over when he’s dazed from the synthetic rush to sink a tongue into that lush cunt, licking and nibbling, laving and lapping and sucking until he’s rewarded with a gush of omega come in his mouth, well. He’s just topping the pretty thing off. There are pheromones in saliva, after all.

And the poor, confused darling really _would_ benefit from learning that his body and sex can be a source of pleasure, not just frustration.

***

At Stiles’s next visit, he gives the omega a drug info sheet on high-saturation synthetic pheromone suppositories, with the symptoms of synth-rejection highlighted. The boy stuffs it into his backpack, but Peter’s fairly certain he’ll look at it anyway—he’ll be too curious not to. And, when he does, he’ll see that the symptoms match what he’s going through—reduced efficacy, need for increased number of doses, heart palpitations, cold sweats, nausea, muscle aches, brain fog, general malaise, lowered sex drive, weight loss.

In extreme cases, synth-rejection can even trigger heat symptoms, as the omega’s body seeks the safety and security of a trusted alpha.

Many of them overlap with withdrawal symptoms, but there’s no reason to suspect withdrawals. Not when he’s still getting his meds.

Duke steps into the hallway as he’s watching Stiles walk out. “Why haven’t you just knotted the poor thing and put him out his misery?”

Peter quirks an eyebrow at the overstepping of professional boundaries. “I have permission to do so in case of an emergency.”

Deucalion’s eyebrows climb his forehead as he gestures towards where Stiles is exiting Omega Services. “You don’t call that an emergency?”

He shakes his head. “Stiles is very headstrong—it’s why his case was assigned to me. It’s better for everyone involved if he makes the transition willingly.” It will also make being able to knot inside that sweet little body so much sweeter, but he keeps that to himself. He and Duke have never seen eye-to-eye about the ethics of enjoying your work.

“Well, for his sake, I hope that’s soon.”

***

Before leaving for winter break, Peter sets Stiles up with a hormonal IUD. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy being able to open the little thing up and go that deep, deeper than any other alpha has gone or will go. 

It makes him want to put his mouth over Stiles's tender clit and suckle ‘til the boy's spine arches in climax. Unfortunately, that plan is derailed by cramping and spasms, so he has to content himself with gentling Stiles through it, with a bare hand stroking over that flat belly and whispering sweet nothings. It's not a bad consolation prize. 

That taken care of, he hands over a case of small, clear plastic applicators. "I'm trusting you with these, you understand? One dose a day, before you go to bed." 

Stiles blushes, but nods before looking closer. "Are these . . . ?" At Peter's raised eyebrow, he huffs. "They look like—from my heat?" 

He smiles at how flustered the pretty thing gets, and some of the glee he feels must come through, because it gets him a side-eye. “They are. Pre-loaded rectal doses, one per day, plus an extra two, in case something goes wrong.”

“But why—why can’t I just do what I normally do?” Stiles hesitates to take the case, staring at it with a furrow between his eyebrows.

“Because no one will be there to supervise your doses, sweetheart. It’s the holidays—regular doctor’s offices will be closed, or have shortened hours, and going to the ER is a bad idea, because you aren’t a typical case, and they won’t give you what you need.” He waits, and Stiles nods, because none of what he’s said is untrue or worth arguing about. “Plus, we’ve been handling your care. I’d rather refer you to another R.A., but they won’t be able to review your case and fit you in before the holidays, so this is the compromise.”

Stiles’s eyes widen. “I won’t have a prescription at the pharmacy—my old one ran out just before I started college.” He pauses for a moment, one finger touching the edge of the case. “Am I still considered a patient at my gyno’s?”

Peter hums. “To my knowledge, yes, but not an active one, since your care was transferred to Berkley’s OS.”

The boy sighs, and closes the case. “One a day, you said?”

He nods—the boy will need them that often, given the way Peter’s been tapering him. “Yes. These are a little smaller than your usual dose, but they’ll be easier to use on your own.”

“Anything I need to know about this?”

He runs a comforting hand down the boy’s arm. “Use a little carrier gel or lube, and lie on your side. That’ll make it easier. And you’ll probably want to wait a minute or two, before you remove the applicator, which you can toss right into the trash.”

“Okay.” Stiles sighs, and then gives a forced smile. “See you when I get back, I guess.”

“Have a good holiday, darling.”

Peter certainly will.

***

As he administers Stiles’s first dose of the New Year, a mere third of what the boy was taking at the start of the school year, Peter knows it won’t be long now.

***

It’s his special patient’s second appointment of the new semester, and Peter knows it’s time. So he makes sure his messenger bag is well-stocked and Stiles’s meds are pre-mixed before he leaves to do his Friday house-calls.

He leaves Stiles’s appointment for last.

Before he even knocks on the dorm room door, he can smell the boy’s misery, and he has to school his features into polite blandness as Stiles lets him in with a muttered, “Fucking took you long enough.”

Peter kicks off his shoes and doesn’t react to the snappish tone. His sweet thing is in need, suffering, and some foul-temper is to be expected. Crouching down, he makes a show of rifling through his bag for what he’s after. “You ready for me?”

“As ready as I’m gonna be to have you shove shit up my ass.”

Just for that, Peter’s going to make the little brat come with his fingers in that ass. He pulls on gloves, and looks over the room. “Towel is laid down, good—have you showered recently?”

It gets him an incredulous look. “Showered last night, why?”

Ah, lovely. “In that case, if you could strip and lay on your back, we’ll get right to it.”

Stiles is huffy, but obeys. Even if he would never admit it—and it’s possible he’s not consciously aware of everything it means—he’s still an omega. And Peter is the alpha who took him through his last heat. It makes this part easier than it would be otherwise.

So Peter smiles as he tears open a package of sanitary wipes. “I know you’re not feeling well,” he murmurs, bracing on hand on Stiles’s belly as he carefully cleans between the folds, trying not to linger around the poor, neglected clit, “but don’t take that out on me. Not when I’m here to give you what you need.”

His hand drifts lower, massaging between lean, muscled cheeks. Stiles, for his part, just stares up at him, face flushed and expression torn between anger and arousal. Peter finishes, and tosses the used wipe in the trash. “I know you’re under a lot of stress right now.” He carefully turns Stiles’s lanky body to the side, and guides the top leg up to give him access. His thumb rubs lube over puckered flesh that remains as stubbornly tight as ever. “But you do have options.”

He pauses, the applicator tip resting against Stiles’s rim, waiting for the boy to understand, to accept the treatment plan that’s been offered and discussed for months now.

But, ultimately, Stiles wouldn’t be _Stiles_ if he didn’t do things the hard way, so he turns his face into the sheets and mutters, “Just gimme my meds and get it over with.”

Ah, well. He tried.

So Peter presses the plunger on the meds, and waits for a count of twenty before removing the applicator and tossing it into the trash, along with his gloves. And then he slides off the bed slowly, and heads towards the door. It’s as he’s slipping his shoes back on that he hears a high-pitched whine.

Looking over, he sees his stubborn darling propped up on one arm, face pink and shining. “Something’s wrong.”

He sounds terrified, and Peter’s next to him in a flash, pressing a palm to his forehead, and then two fingers to the flushed throat. Finally, Peter lowers his hand to between those slender thighs, and skates his fingertips through the copious amounts of slick all but gushing from his boy’s cunt. “Pseudo-heat,” he murmurs.

“Oh fuck, oh god,” the poor thing murmurs, squeezing his knees together in a childish attempt to relieve the pressure building in his pelvis. “This is—this is because of the meds, isn’t it?”

Peter nods “It is.” And it is. Just not for the reasons Stiles thinks.

The stubborn boy squirms, and then takes a deep breath. “What—what do we do?”

He lets his fondness for this poor, lost omega bleed through. “Now, you let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

“Wh—what does that mean?” the pretty thing asks, but he’s pliant, letting Peter guide him down onto his back on the bed.

Peter pulls on another glove and swipes his first two fingers across the shiny folds, gathering slick. “If I can’t calm your symptoms with a couple of orgasms, then you know what, baby.” He slides his fingers back, pushing one past the boy’s rim and inside him, where the synths are being rapidly absorbed. He twists a little, and watches, mesmerized, as another gush of slick slides out of those sweet omegan depths.

Stiles, of course, mewls a little “no”, and tries to move away. Peter moves with him, keeping his finger right where it is, and starts working a second one in for good measure. The whining increases in pitch, and he has to plant a hand on the flat belly to keep his boy in one place. “None of that, now, I need to check if your medication has been absorbed.”

Stiles doesn’t stop thrashing weakly, muttering fevered nonsense, so Peter pinches his clit in rhythm with the fingers gently moving in his ass, and it’s not long before the sweet thing comes, clenching tight around his fingers and choking on a wail.

Peter pulls free slowly, enjoying the visual treat of the way the boy’s rim clings to his fingers. He waits to see if the symptoms calm, but he doesn’t expect them to—not after he adulterated Stiles’s usual dose with a little hit of omega pheromones. 

He skates a hand up one trembling thigh. “How are you feeling now, sweet thing?”

Stiles’s head rolls, and his fingers curl. Peter eyes them warily, remembering what the boy said before heat week, that he has a tendency to claw himself up while in the throes. And, while this may not be true heat, the symptoms are similar enough.

“Stiles, can you answer me?”

He gets a high-pitched whine, but those glazed doe-eyes lock on him. Good enough. “I’m going to knot you, alright?”

At that, Stiles stirs a little, shaking his head and trying to push Peter away. Trouble is, he has all the strength of a newborn kitten, so it’s not very effective. Peter loses the glove, strips out of his V-neck, and shucks his jeans. “It’s okay, baby, I’m here. Alpha’s here,” he coos, and it sends heat crawling through his veins to see the way Stiles squirms when he does.

He slides his underwear off and leans down to suck at one of those rosy nipples, grinding his cock in the crease of his needy omega’s thigh. Long fingers tangle in his hair, but they aren’t pushing him away, so he moves to the other side, biting and worrying at the left nipple, and it earns him a high-pitched whine—distressed and desperate.

It means he won’t be able to play this time, but that’s alright. Stiles’s needs come before his own. “Alright, sweetheart, I won’t tease.” He gets up on his knees and shoves a pillow under his pretty omega’s hips, and then guides the tip of his cock into that sweet, slick heat.

He groans when the head pops inside, but Stiles gasps. “St-stop—too big!”

It takes everything he has not to roll his eyes at that. “Take a deep breath for me, baby, that’s it.” He strokes over the heaving sides, and the pressure around his cock eases. “There you go. You just need to relax and let me in.”

He rolls his hips forward, sinking halfway inside to prove his point, and Stiles _writhes_. It’s not in pain. “See, sweet thing? You’ve always had a greedy cunt—you’ve taken that plug for years, you can take me.”

Stiles mewls, and Peter goes down onto his elbows, sliding deeper as he does. He starts slow, savouring the treat of the boy’s body—the supple, quaking limbs and flushed skin, the easy slide of his cock inside the plush softness of his boy’s dripping-wet cunt and the delicious squeeze of strong pelvic muscles. Now that he’s behaving—canting his hips up and splaying his legs wide, presenting his juicy little hole for his alpha to fuck—it’s obvious that he was made for this. You’d never know this was the first time he’s ever welcomed a real cock inside his hungry little snatch.

Peter’s determined to show him what he’s been missing. He thrusts roughly, letting his orgasm build until his knot starts to inflate, at which point he goes deep and stays there, grinding and sucking on those succulent little nipples. As a bonus, it causes the boy to squeeze around him. “That’s it, sweet thing,” he murmurs as Stiles whimpers and squirms, “cunt full of come is just what you need, and you’re being such a good boy, slicking up and presenting for it so nicely.”

The poor confused darling shakes his head, but can’t stop the way his hips are hitching up, grinding himself on Peter and forcing the knot deep. He might think he doesn’t want it, but his body disagrees—this is just more of that stubborn bad attitude he walked into Peter’s office with months ago, and this will be the last time it makes an appearance if Peter has anything to say about it. It’s high time his neglected little body experience real pleasure.

Warmth rolls through him as his knot finishes expanding and locks behind the boy’s pubic bone, tying them. It’s a much looser fit than with his other patients—Stiles wasn’t joking about a wide canal—but the reduced pressure feels heavenly. Silky soft. Peter could easily luxuriate in it all day, but he knows how much better it could be—how much better it _will_ be—when he feels Stiles come around him, milking his knot.

“Peter!” the boy gasps, eyelashes wet and oh-so-pretty. “_Can’t_.”

“It’s different, isn’t it?” He hitches one of those lean thighs higher up his waist, laying more kisses across the boy’s heaving chest. “So much different, _better_, than a cold hunk of silicone.” He pauses, panting as his knot throbs and pulses, gushing inside the cunt that’s never needed alpha come so badly.

Stiles proves it, crying out and arching his back at the sensation. At the rush of pheromones his stubborn body craves.

It also makes him clench around the knot, prompting another spurt. “Doesn’t all my nice, hot come feel better than that cold, sticky gel?” Peter mutters, kissing up the flushed, slender throat. He lifts up a little to slide a hand between their bodies, finding Stiles’s swollen clit and tracing circles around it with his thumb.

Stiles moans and undulates, so he keeps it up until the pretty thing tenses and trembles through an orgasm that nearly takes Peter’s breath away. Both because of how gorgeous he is writhing on the end of a knot, _Peter’s_ knot, and because the way his pelvic muscles ripple would bring a lesser alpha to their knees.

Once the aftershocks have passed and his pretty omega’s lying in a boneless heap, Stiles rasps, “Can you pull out?”

What? “It’s a bit soon for that, pet. My knot won’t go down on its own for at least another fifteen minutes. Why?”

Stiles huffs. “Because this isn’t exactly comfortable, okay? Besides, you swooped in with your magic dick and fixed it, and I don’t wanna draw this part out.”

Again—disappointing to hear, but Peter knows where the attitude is coming from, so he’s not fooled. “Uncomfortable how? Do you need to move?”

Stiles’s face twists, and he turns his head to the side, refusing to meet Peter’s gaze. “It’s just—you’re big, okay? And it feels really different.”

Peter leans in and drops gentle pecks along the boy’s jaw, murmuring, “I know it can seem scary the first few times. It’s not like a plug, where you know you can take it out whenever you want. But it’s alright, pet. It’s just you and me, and you know I’ll take care of you, make you feel good.”

Stiles squirms, and it must make Peter’s knot shift because he groans and rolls his hips up. “Think I prefer the plug,” he mutters, and that’s about the last straw.

“Oh, but silicone doesn’t make your cunt twitch like my knot does,” Peter whispers, grinding and revelling in the way said cunt squeezes around him in response. Stiles gives a little hitching cry of pleasure. “I know you felt that. Your sweet little pussy doesn’t want to let me go, wouldn’t unclench and let my cock slide free no matter what you’re trying to sell me. Because, the trouble is,” Peter slides his hands under the boy’s back, “silicone can’t do this,” he grinds his hips again, and gets a gasp, “or this,” Peter hauls the boy up as he leans back until Stiles is trembling in his lap, legs splayed wide over Peter’s thighs and gravity forcing the knot as deep as it’ll go.

Stiles whimpers, squirming to try and relieve some of the pressure, and only succeeds in working himself up further. He doesn’t seem to realize that he’s rolling his hips, corkscrewing himself on Peter’s cock, doesn’t seem to grasp that they’re well and truly tied until the boy’s hungry cunt stops milking Peter’s knot for the pheromones his body needs. But that’s alright—he’ll figure it out once he’s sloppy with alpha come and so sated his little cunt’s too tired to flutter.

His hips keep up their dirty grind, even as the stubborn thing finally breaks and starts to cry “Please, _please_, alpha,” and it’s music to Peter’s ears.

“I’ve got you pet,” Peter murmurs. He leans in and leaves sucking kisses along the flushed throat as his works a hand between them to get his thumb back on his omega’s clit.

And then, for all that Stiles is undulating sinuously in his lap, riding Peter’s knot as much as he’s able, he whines, “No, too much.”

And Peter can’t help but huff. “Pet, you need this so badly you’re trying to ride me. Stop fighting it and just take what you need.”

And then, arms shaking where he wraps them around Peter’s shoulders and tears squeezing out from under his eyelids, he does.

***

A few hours later, once his stubborn omega is safely on the other side of his pseudo-heat, Peter says, “Given that reaction, it’s not safe to keep you on synthetics anymore.”

“What?” Stiles gasps, like it’s been punched-out of him. He barely moves from his naked sprawl, but it’s not like Peter minds being able to appreciate his hard work. And a limp, wrung-out omega with a fucked-loose cunt steadily leaking his come is a _very_ pretty picture.

He buttons up his jeans. “Stiles, synth rejection is serious, and I’m not going to risk your life to an even bigger reaction. We’re going to start weaning you off synthetics immediately.”

Stiles struggles himself upright, wincing at the pressure doing so puts on his tender nethers. “But I can’t just go off them! The withdrawals, and school, and—”

“Shush, shush, it’s alright,” Peter cups his jaw, smoothing a thumb over cracked lips. “I’m not going anywhere, wouldn’t leave you like that. I’ll give you what you need.”

Stiles gulps, mouth turning down and brows furrowing. “You’re going to knot me, you mean.”

Hunger curls in his belly, so far from sated it’s ridiculous. “Yes, pet. I’ll be supplying the pheromones your rebellious little body needs.”

Stiles pulls away from him, pouting a little. “I don’t want you to.”

His pride would be hurt by that, but Peter knows his boy. Knows this is just more of him digging his heels in. “Don’t try to tell me you didn’t enjoy it,” he murmurs, fingers combing through the thick, short hair.

“I just—that’s not the point, Peter! I don’t want you to knot me!”

“Oh?” He grips the petulant little thing’s chin and forces eye contact. “Would you prefer another R.A. between your thighs, then?”

Stiles jerks back, eyes widening. “What? No!”

Peter goes on. “Because those are your choices, here. Synthetics aren’t an option anymore, so you need an alpha to step in and step up. That can be me, or another R.A. from the clinic, or we can call your dam and have him choose someone. What’s it going to be?”

The delicate, mole-spotted jaw clenches, and it’s silent for a long moment. But eventually, the boy sullenly grumbles, “You,” which is all Peter needs to hear.

“Excellent. You get some rest, and I’ll go deal with the paperwork.”

**Author's Note:**

> Notes for my conceptualization of this omegaverse: 
> 
> Man/woman are secondary genders. A/B/O designation is biological sex. Alphas have male-typical genitalia, plus a knot. Male betas are the same, sans knot. Omegas have female-typical genitalia, plus heats. Female betas are the same, without heats. Alphas and omegas are set apart from betas in that they typically have a strong drive to breed, and are highly fertile. Also: because "mother" and "father" are tied to a male/female gender binary, I've used "sire" and "dam" instead, which refer to the impregnating and impregnated parents respectively.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://queerfictionwriter.tumblr.com/).
> 
> **Final Note**: Please don't ask me about more for this 'verse/series. I'm beyond stressed right now with meatspace things, and asking about if/when I'm going to update things is just added pressure I'm not able to handle. Thank you in advance for being compassionate and understanding of my sadly-ungodlike meatsack.


End file.
